


Fun-Size and Gigantra Conquer the High Places

by beetle



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: F/F, F/M, Failboats In Love, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Head Injury, Injury Recovery, Krogans are AWESOME!, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nicknames, Non-Graphic Violence, Nutella, Post-Game(s), Reyder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Sara saves the day, Cora gets drunk, Reyes gets aclue, and Scott’s got shitty, awful nicknames for everyone . . .everyone.Oh, and some random dude gets his wrist broken. Prompt in end notes.





	Fun-Size and Gigantra Conquer the High Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Set post-game, some spoilers. All humor (maybe a touch of angst) and no electrolytes.

 

 

Sara’s not _that_ short.

 

In fact, she’s not short _at all_. At least not _much_ shorter than Suvi, who—okay, is maybe kind of practically a leprechaun anyway, what with the wee-ness, spriteliness, red hair, accent, and all.

 

But _Liam’s_ not that much _taller_ than Suvi, yet no one’s ever felt the need to remark on his relatively compact stature.

 

Yet everyone and their damned _cousin_ had to comment on how _petite_ the Pathfinder was. How unexpectedly _adorbs_.

 

“Who’s my li’l fun-sized sib?” Scott—even _Scotty_ , barely taller than Liam—had been known to frequently coo at his sister, just to get her dander up. Hell, he’d been doing that their whole lives. And she’d glare up at _him_ with the piercing, _dark_ Ryder-eyes they’d both inherited, and he’d stare down at _her_ along the short, pug Harlow- _nose_ they’d both inherited.

 

The stare-downs usually lasted until one of them cracked: either Sara with rolled eyes and a long string of profanity—this, even at the tender age of seven, a bad habit picked up from their tiny, feisty mother—or Scott with his uncontrollable need to laugh at her.

 

Sara had naturally assumed that once in Andromeda, things would, of course, be different. A fresh start. And she was right. No one even _noticed_ that the Pathfinder—kett-defeater and Archon-killer . . . Savior of Andromeda—was . . . on the wee side. At least until Scott had, quite purposely, she suspected, called her by her least favorite nickname over open comms between the Nexus—where most of _his_ pathfinding, the data-crunching end of it, was done—and the _Tempest_.

 

His, “see ya, Fun-Size! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” and the accompanying asinine chortle, were still echoing in the air of the bridge as Sara stood blanching, flushing, then blanching again. Kallo’s big, dark eyes and Suvi’s twinkly blue ones, shone up at her, unblinking and mischievous, before they turned back to their posts and duties with twitching lips and distinct airs of amusement.

 

Sara had finally sighed and stalked off to her quarters to get some paperwork—even for a field-Pathfinder, there was _plenty_ —done, not deigning to address Scott’s unprofessional, but _so-typical_ sign-off.

 

“ _Fun-Size_ , huh?” Vetra had noted when Sara—quite unnecessarily, but hey, a little exercise was always good—passed through the semi-secluded space that the provisioner/gunner used as an office. Her bright, sunshine-colored eyes were warm, and her face was remarkably open and amused for a turian’s.

 

“Well,” Sara had huffed, crossing her arms defensively, despite being aware that doing so probably made her look like a stroppy Teddy bear. “Scott’s got stupid, insulting nicknames for _all_ of us. Yes, even me . . . that asshole,” she’d added, and Vetra had laughed, full and rich and just . . . _something_. Something that had, from the first, sent shivers up and down Sara’s spine. “He’s got one for you, too, y’know.”

 

“Ah.” Vetra’s mandibles lifted as she grinned. “Do I even _wanna_ know?”

 

“Probably not . . . _Gigantra_ ,” Sara had said with throw-away nonchalance as she’d strolled off. But she was grinning, too, as Vetra’s renewed laughter followed her to the _Tempest’s_ lift.

 

Once in her spacious, but annoyingly sterile quarters, Sara had sat at her desk, staring out at the stars and smiling, while SAM, with rather ill grace—for _SAM_ , anyway—did most of her paperwork with occasional, passive-aggressive sniffing and grumbling.

 

#

 

The first time one of the crew slipped and called her _Fun-Size_ in _public_ , she’d merely sighed and shook her head, then signaled Umi for another drink. It was either that, or murder one of her oldest, dearest friends.

 

“ _Fun-Size_ , eh?” Reyes Vidal had noted, his eyes ticking between Sara and an unusually big-mouthed Cora—the woman had _no_ resistance to alcohol, not even the sweet, dry angaran wine she’d taken to, lately . . . and _absolutely_ no chill when she was shit-faced—with mild amusement. “And here, I thought _shena_ was an annoying—if apropos—code-name.”

 

Cora, swaying on her stool next to Sara, had snorted and giggled. “Oh, Goddess, _no_! _No one_ ever lets _Scott_ choose the code-names! Doesn’t stop him from coming up with them, ha, but we do our best not to pay him any mind. Though some of ‘em are . . . pretty hilarious.”

 

Sara had rolled her eyes again, muttering about lightweight lieutenants and traitorous family, as Umi slammed down her requested drink.

 

“Ah,” Reyes had hummed, nodding sagely. “So, it’s less of a code-name, then, and more of a . . . brotherly term of endearment.”

 

“ _Endearment_ , my fine ass!” Cora had exclaimed raucously, and even unflappable Reyes’s brows had lifted in surprise. “He does it to get her goat! To get _all_ our goats! Scott Ryder is a ridiculous child-man!”

 

“He’s an _asshole_ ,” Sara had amended under her breath. Cora, too trashed to notice, had gone on merrily.

 

“He calls _me_ _Xena: Warrior Princess_.” She’d hiccupped then grinned. “I dunno what that means, buuuut . . . it’s got a _nice_ ring to it. But don’t tell him I said so, or he’ll change it to something _stupid_.”

 

The right corner of Reyes Vidal’s mouth ticked and he’d cleared his throat around what Sara was pretty sure was a chuckle. “It goes no further than the three of us . . . I promise,” he’d sworn, as sincere as any Boy Scout.

 

Sara had sighed, knowing that she might as well legally change her name from _Sara Andrea Ryder_ , to _Fun-Size McBrother’s-a-bastard_ , for all that Reyes would keep it to himself. Not that the man couldn’t keep a secret—he _could_ . . . he really, _really_ could—but it was obvious that he found it far more entertaining and worthwhile to spread it around Kadara.

 

And thence the rest of Heleus.

 

And maybe the whole of Andromeda.

 

Sara glared at her shifty friend and his charming smile widened. She knew the game was given away, and Reyes _knew_ she knew. That was how things worked between them. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, but somehow, she trusted him with her life, nonetheless. She had a feeling that he felt the same way and, apparently, that was good enough for them to be going on with. She counted him as a close friend and a confidant, and hoped she served a similar purpose for him.

 

“. . . got a nickname for _you_ , too, Vidal,” Cora had been saying slyly, when Sara tuned back into the conversation. Reyes’s eyebrows lifted once more in gentle surprise that Sara didn’t buy for a moment.

 

“Is that so, lieutenant? Do tell,” he’d purred. Cora had smirked, then leaned forward, grabbing Reyes by the collar to yank him close. She’d whispered in his ear briefly, but whatever she said made Reyes’s too-cool-for-school, ironic mask of amusement slip away, to be replaced by genuine surprise and . . . an actual blush.

 

Sara made a face, knowing very well that her brother’s _horrible_ taste in men _and_ in nicknames must be in fine form to startle an honest expression out of _Reyes Vidal_.

 

“My,” the clearly nonplussed smuggler breathed, clearing his throat again, and blinking. “That’s . . . very descriptive.”

 

“I know, right?!” Cora had laughed loud and long. “You do _you_ , Vidal, but if that was Scotty’s nickname for _me_? I’da tapped that so hard, he’d be walkin’ funny till he was _ninety_!”

 

And Reyes Vidal had blushed _again_. That made for twice in less than one minute.

 

“I . . . I. . . .” he sputtered absently, the gears behind his pretty, green eyes spinning at lightspeed. Then he was frowning down at his omnitool and punching in commands as he stood. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Harper. Pathfinder. I have some . . .  matters to attend to.”

 

And with that, he was gone, just another body in the press that was _Kralla’s_ on a busy night. Leaving Cora to grumble about having to pay their tab _and_ Reyes’s— _again_ —and Sara to very nearly ask Cora what she’d said to scare Reyes “completely lacking in actual fucks to give” Vidal into scurrying off like an offended maiden. But in the end, she’d decided she didn’t want to know.

 

She just . . . didn’t want to know.

 

So, she’d finished her drink, nodding and grunting distractedly while Cora bitched about Kallo—the pilot had an irritatingly kindergarten-esque habit of pulling Cora’s figurative pigtails until she was ready to deck him . . . or tackle him and demand _some_ _sort_ of satisfaction of him—and steadfastly forced away any speculations she might have had about Scott’s nickname for Reyes. And for Reyes’s suspiciously speedy exit. And the ooky-weird sexual tension between Cora and Kallo.

 

Really, it was just best to give up thinking all together, Sara decided firmly.

 

Then, suddenly, there was projectile weapons fire out of _nowhere_ —it _was_ _Kralla’s Song_ on a busy night, after all—and not even at Cora or Sara, or any of the bar’s usual suspects. And yet, the inebriated pair wound up responding in kind, anyway. Even drunk off her toned ass, Cora was crack-shot.

 

And Sara’s biotics were always just _waiting_ for an excuse to manifest first and ask questions never.

 

It all quickly became a blur of pretty standard action sequences, strong language, and science fiction-violence. Stop the bad-guys, save the day, commendations from Keema Dohrgun for their selflessness in the face of danger—yadda-yadaa-yadda, S.S.D.D.—and then, thankfully, a relatively uneventful stay for the rest of their time on Kadara.

 

And neither Sara nor Cora were surprised when, not a day after the firefight, _Scott_ showed up in Kadara, heading straight for _Tartarus,_ his normally doofy-cute face set and stony. The Ryder resolve-face.

 

When the _Tempest_ left port a few days later, neither Scott nor Reyes Vidal had been seen since leaving the notorious dive hand-in-hand, in some hurry, shortly after Scott’s arrival.

 

Sara had dared to hope that, in the . . . distracting days that had surely followed for Scott and Reyes, perhaps _Fun-Size_ might finally die a quiet death, eclipsed as it was by . . . _whatever_ they were doing together.

 

She hoped in vain.

 

#

 

The _next_ time she got called _Fun-Size_ in public, it wasn’t by crew. But, as with that night in _Kralla’s_ , there was an inciting incident that came with it.

 

She was on a relatively empty Nexus tram with just two other people . . . a human and a krogan, neither of whom she knew. The human was a Nexus bureaucrat, from his uniform. One who— _somehow_ —had _no idea_ with whom he was dealing.

 

Or whose left ass-cheek he’d just grabbed.

 

Sara, who’d been brain-deep in her datapad, going over the latest numbers from Scott on a possibly habitable world not _too_ far from Meridian, had been surprised, to say the least. Had actually squeaked and started.

 

A public transit-perv hadn’t played grab-ass with her since _well_ before she’d left the Milky Way.

 

But before even she could whirl on the scumbag—she was still wrangling down her occasionally hair-trigger biotics . . . which did _not_ take well to being startled—the hand was yanked off her ass. And the bureaucrat was yelping in pain over a sickening cracking sound.

 

By the time Sara turned, half a second later, it was to see the krogan passenger—part of Nexus Security, from _her_ uniform—holding the bureacrat’s bent wrist at an interesting angle, while said bureaucrat whined and mewled and _begged_ her to _let go_.

 

“That’s _not_ how one addresses the lady who saved the fuckin’ universe, pal,” the security officer said in a smooth, pleasant voice, but with a scarifying smile on her face. Not that the bureaucrat was in any shape to notice. _His_ _face_ was paper-white and his light-blue eyes were bugging out of their sockets, almost. “Now, say you’re sorry for being a creep, then I’ll escort you to the Med-Bay to get this wrist you mysteriously injured checked out.”

 

“S-S-Sorry!” the guy gulped immediately, tears running down his face. Sara, torn between her civic duty—legally speaking this . . . had the potential to be a real _clusterfuck_ of a nuisance . . . not to mention _paperwork_ —and her deep amusement and satisfaction, had frowned and cocked her head.

 

“Excuse me, but I didn’t catch that,” she said as the tram stopped and the doors opened. No one was waiting at the stop, but the security officer put her hand over the door sensor to keep the tram from moving on. “My mind must’ve wandered. . . .”

 

“AAAAAGH!” the guy screeched as the security officer twisted his wrist a little more. “I’M SORRY FOR BEING A CREEEEEEP! I APOLOGIZE! PLEASE LEMME _GOOOOOO!_ ”

 

The security officer had glanced at Sara questioningly and Sara had smiled. “Okay. I heard him, that time.”

 

“Alrighty, then. C’mon, Casanova,” the officer had said, slowly releasing the guy’s wrist—which he instantly cradled to his chest, while sniffling pathetically—and slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders like they were old pals. “Let’s go get that wrist splinted up.”

 

The guy had whimpered, sniffled again, and nodded, letting himself be lead off the tram.

 

“Thanks for the assist!” Sara called after the officer, who’d chuckled warmly.

 

“Anytime, Fun-Size!”

 

And the doors to the tram had closed on Sara’s gaping surprise. She was _still_ gaping when, minutes later, she arrived at her destination. And still blushing.

 

She never _did_ find out that security officer’s name.

 

#

 

There were many times after that that she got called _Fun-Size_ by all and sundry, be it crew or civilians. It slipped out at the damnedest moments: during stake-outs and covert-ops, rescue missions and firefights, exploration and investigation. And just everyday moments of easy, absent-minded camaraderie.

 

The time that it finally went from being a tolerated annoyance to something . . . fond and familiar— _comforting_ —happened like this:

 

It was dark. _Really_ dark. The kind of dark with no relief from its own darkness.

 

So, despite her muzzy, confused brain and disorientation—the last thing she remembered was eating a ration bar while bullshitting with Gil in the engine room, just before some standard recon dirtside—Sara tried to crack open heavy, aching eyelids. As she did so, she registered intense, body-wide _agony_. The kind of pain that made not just consciousness, but _existence_ a real bitch.

 

“Mom. . . ?” she croaked out, half-delirious with that agony, before remembering that her mother was no longer an option. And in her weaker moments, the last person she’d ever wanted nearby was her _father_. Neither of them had _ever_ known how to handle each other’s weak moments with anything other than discomfort and disapproval.

 

Light walloped her eyes when her lids finally fluttered apart and she hissed weakly. “Scotty. . . ?” she exhaled hopefully, remembering that, as of their last comm chat, he was the only family she had left.

 

“It’s okay, Ryder— _Sara_ —you’re safe. We’ve got you,” a familiar voice promised. Sara couldn’t even deal with opening her eyes. She didn’t even _bother_ with trying to turn her head.

 

She was genuinely amazed that she wasn’t screaming.

 

A cool, rough hand settled on her forehead and for a few moments, that small part of her was pain-free. And then . . . _SAM_ spoke.

 

::Pathfinder . . . you’re awake.:: There was unmistakable relief in his proper, always calm voice, but Sara didn’t notice, as the pain in her _head_ ramped up considerably—more so with each word the AI spoke. ::I shall alert Scott. He’s been beside himself for six days.::

 

 _Six . . . days. . . ?_ she wondered through the haze of agony. Then, pain was sweeping her out to sea. All she could hear was the sudden, strident beeping of machines nearby, and the strange, near-silent rustle-hustle of bodies moving around her.

 

“ _Hurts_ ,” she whimpered in a voice so small, even she could barely hear it. The hand on her forehead moved back through her short, dark curls—rather, over shorn, bare scalp and several stitched-up, healing wounds—then disappeared as the familiar voice swore. Sara felt scalding tears run down the sides of her face and heard another whimpering moan that had to have been coming from her. But she’d never made a sound quite like _that_ in her life. “ _H-Huuuuur_ —”

 

“Oh, shit, she’s seizing, again,” another voice said, also familiar, as well as competent and grim. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside, Vetra.”

 

“But—”

 

A new, deeper darkness fell, then, which Sara didn’t climb out from under for another month. And when she did, it was to aches and soreness . . . but no pain. Enervation and lethargy . . . but no pain. _Silence_ , and. . . .

 

And _no_. . . .

 

“SAM?” she croaked out weakly, her eyes fluttering open to dim light that made her squint a bit, but also didn’t hurt. Much. She blinked until her eyes adjusted, then took in her surroundings.

 

She was in a private room in one of the Nexus Med-Bays, she recognized sluggishly, rolling her eyes to the left. To the figure dozing in a chair next to her bed and glimpsed from the corner of her sensitive eyes.

 

“Vetra,” she chuffed out, barely audible to her own ears. But Vetra stirred and those sunshine eyes opened. And _kept_ _opening_ , as Vetra’s mouth dropped into a gape, and her mandibles twitched and fluttered. Sara smiled a little, huffing after it turned into a long yawn. “Hi.”

 

“You’re . . . awake?” Vetra leaned forward, taking Sara’s lax hand—it was covered in shiny burn-scars she didn’t remember being there before—and searching Sara’s face. Her own face seemed, somehow, tired and wan. “You’re _awake_!”

 

“No . . . sneakin’ anything by you,” Sara noted, licking her dry lips. Vetra laughed, though it sounded like a relieved sob. “What . . . happened?”

 

“What _didn’t_ happen!” Another laugh, this one a brief, near-hysterical bark. But Vetra’s eyes were wide and locked panic-tight on Sara’s face, as if afraid Sara might be a hallucination. “It’s a long story, Sara. One that can wait till you’ve had a chance to rub the sleep out of your eyes, at least.”

 

Sara frowned, but accepted that with another yawn, this one leaving behind heavier eyelids, and a familiar irritation that meant her eyes wanted to close and would soon do so, with or without her permission.

 

“Scott?” she asked, and Vetra smiled.

 

“He’s at work for another forty minutes. He usually visits you in the morning and in the evening. The rest of us stop by whenever we can, too,” Vetra added quietly, shrugging and finally glancing down at Sara’s hand in hers. Sara turned her hand in Vetra’s and limply clasped it.

 

Vetra squeezed back and Sara sighed, some tense part of her relaxing markedly. “And . . . they’re alright? The crew? _You_?”

 

“That’s a big affirmative, thanks to you. You saved the day, again, Pathfinder. And got yourself pretty well kebabed and flash-fried doing so.” Vetra’s words were light, but her tone was less so.

 

Licking her lips again, Sara tried to smile. “It’s not a party unless I nearly die being a big damn hero.”

 

Vetra snorted and brought Sara’s hand to her mouth, kissing it oh, so softly, and lingering. “I could do with a few less parties, then. Some nice nights in are starting to sound pretty damned good, actually.”

 

“But . . . how else’m I s’posed to impress the pretty girl . . . if I don’t get cool scars doing bad-ass things?”

 

Vetra snorted again. “So, you, doing simultaneous impersonations of a voodoo doll and a big fly in a bug-zapper was . . . supposed to _impress_ someone?”

 

“ _Someone_ , yeah,” Sara admitted quietly, holding Vetra’s gaze for so long, she did, in fact, start to drift off in that sunshine-gaze. . . .

 

Then Vetra cleared her throat and laughed. “You _could_ always try asking _someone_ out on a date or for coffee,” she hinted gently.

 

“Aw . . . but that’s so _tame_. Cool scars! Bad-ass things!” When Vetra laughed again, Sara took a deep breath that she refused to classify as a yawn. Then, before she really _did_ drift off, asked again about the last piece of her support-system—her _family_ —and the most conspicuously absent one. “SAM?”

 

Vetra smiled and closed her eyes for a few moments. When she opened them, it was like the sun rising in the Med-Bay, and Sara sighed again, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to keep them open. Some large, liquid, unfamiliar warmth in her chest seemed to spread outward to the rest of her, like a small measure of vitality and optimism.

 

Of _hope_.

 

“Lexi had to remove your implant after it was . . . damaged. It was causing you intense pain and _grand mal_ seizures that were . . . killing you. _But_ ,” Vetra was quick to add as tears rolled down Sara’s face, “you’ll be pleased to know that the implant has been repaired, and can be reinstalled when you’re a little more on the mend. And SAM’s gonna be _thrilled_ that you’re . . . well. We’re _all_ thrilled, Sara. We’ve just been _hoping_ for so long— _waiting_ for you to wake up.”

 

“Sorry t’ make you guys wait. . . .” Sara yawned again, and this time her eyes stayed shut. “Stay with me?” she mumbled, squeezing Vetra’s hand again, weakly, but holding on until Vetra squeezed back in acknowledgement. “Don’ lemme ‘lone. . . .”

 

“Not on your life, Fun-Size. Not _ever_.” Vetra’s voice was strangely rough and thick, with a thin veneer of good humor and nonchalance. But hearing the old and loathed nickname _in_ _her_ _voice_ , at last, made said nickname— _for the first time in the twenty-five years she’d been hearing it_ —the term of endearment she’d never before believed it was. “Scott’s paying me by the hour to sit here and watch you sleep, after all. Easiest money I ever made.”

 

Sara hummed, almost loopy with sudden exhaustion and upward-spiraling happiness. “Nice work if ya c’n get it, Gigantra.”

 

Vetra chuckled, low and shaky. “Very nice, indeed,” she whispered, and as Sara drifted off into a shorter, much more natural sleep—this one only nine and a half hours long—a soft, reverent kiss was pressed to her forehead.

 

#

 

Ten minutes.

 

Sara had been glaring up at her prized jar of Nutella—worth its weight in gold, here in Andromeda—for ten minutes.

 

She _refused_ to comm one of the crew for help. She was a _Pathfinder_. She _refused_ to be defeated by a kitchen appliance.

 

And Sara didn’t _mind_ sharing her hoard of Milky Way snacks . . . much . . . but Gil could never seem to remember to put her snacks back where he’d _found_ _them_. Where she’d _left_ _them_. Which was pretty much _in_ the fridge somewhere, not _on top of it_ , since. . . .

 

“ _Fun-Size_ ,” Sara muttered and sighed, running a hand up over her short cap of grown-in curls—there was a somewhat alarming bit of white in with the dark-brown, these days—and placing her hands on her hips. She continued to glare up at the distant jar as if the force of her glare could bring the Nutella to her.

 

And that’s how Vetra found her, five minutes after _that_ , still glaring, still with arms akimbo. The other woman came to stand next to Sara and stare up at the Nutella, too.

 

“Hmm,” she finally decided, “one out of five stars, would not watch again. Let’s change the channel.”

 

“Haha. A little help, here, Gigantra,” Sara snarked, but she was pouting, too. Vetra rolled her eyes and reached out—not even _up_ . . . not even a _little_ . . . _just_ out—and plucked the jar of hazelnut goodness from atop the unscaleable ice-cave. But when Sara held out her hand for the jar, Vetra hid it behind her back with a chuckle.

 

“What’s it worth to ya, Pathfinder?”

 

Sara rolled her eyes and sighed. And fought not to smile. “I dunno. Depends on what kinda payment you’ll accept.”

 

Vetra’s brows lifted. “Might have to give that some thought. . . .”

 

Huffing, Sara crossed her arms. “Since when does the _obvious_ choice of payment—dirty, nasty sexual favors—require _thought_?”

 

“Eeeehhhh.” Vetra shrugged. “I don’t wanna be _too_ predictable— _am_ I getting too predictable?”

 

“No. But keep this up and you’re _definitely_ not getting _laid_ again anytime soon.”

 

“Hmmm,” Vetra made a show of giving _that_ some thought, too. At least until Sara poked her in the more flexible plate over her stomach, causing her to double-up a bit and squawk: “Hey, watch it, Fun-Size!”

 

Sara bounced up on her toes and flung her arms around Vetra’s neck, just as Vetra had no doubt expected her to—turians weren’t the only ones who could be a bit predictable—putting her N7 training to good use. She pulled Vetra into a near-stoop and gave her girlfriend a long, teasing, thorough kiss.

 

When it ended—and while they were both still panting loudly in the silence of the _Tempest’s_ kitchen—Sara freed one arm from around Vetra’s neck and made a grab for the Nutella.

 

Vetra—probably expecting that, too—let her grab the jar and dance her smug way out of Vetra’s arms, and out of the kitchen.

 

“Dirty, nasty sexual favors!” the breathless turian called after her hopefully. Sara, also still breathless, laughed. The Pathfinder was both ingenious _and_ triumphant!

 

“ _You’re_ no longer in a position to bargain!” said Pathfinder called right back. “I have my Nutella, at last! What need have I for _you_?”

 

And she was—justifiably—strutting into her quarters, humming _Eye of the Tiger_ , when her omnitool chirped with an incoming text message.

 

> **_You’ve got the Nutella . . . but I’ve got the bread ;-D_ **
> 
> ****
> 
> **_Comm me privately when you’re ready to broker a deal, Fun-Size. XOXOXOXO, Gigantra_ **

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Stitchcasual’s Prompt: _how about domestic Tempest nonsense? Like... Sara can't reach something on a high shelf, good thing vetra is huge._
> 
> [TUMBLE ME](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
